


It Happened Like This

by GhostNox181



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry!John, Angst, Fluff, I Tried, Lestrade is poking his nose in Johnlock business, M/M, Post Reichenbach, confused!sherlock, only at the end though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostNox181/pseuds/GhostNox181
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It goes a little like this: John is angry and there are some things that Sherlock just doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Happened Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for whispersofchange who asked :Write fluffy johnlock involving post reichenbach feels! and lestrade! and nosy!mrs. Hudson! though not necessarily in that order.
> 
> It’s not really that fluffy -_-’ But I tried. The end is fluffy, but the beginning is kinda not. I went a bit over board with this one. I tried to be fluffy and ended up getting angst and erg. Whatever. It has a good end, that should be enough.

Things at 221B Bakers street that day happen a little something like this.

*

There is a knock on the door.

*

_Shock_

*

Sky blue meets slate green.

*

_Confusion_

_*_

“John.”

*

_Relief_

*

“Fuck.”

*

_Anger_

_*  
_

Of course, it all happens so fast, that it really more goes like this.

There is a knock at the door. John puts his paper down and pulls the door open slowly andthenabouttwentyemotionsgothroughhishead as the man standing there says his name and hereallyisn’tthinking, heisjustactingonthestrongestemotion.

And that is why John finds himself standing tensely in the corner of the room, scowling at the man who is supposed to be dead, but instead is sitting on the couch acting like nothing has changed. Except for the bruise forming on the side of his cheek and the icepack he is holding to the nose that finally stopped bleeding.

“There was no reason to hit me the second time,” Sherlock states quietly, his eyes following John’s every movement, although that seems to irritate the other man.

“No reason? No reason!?Are you joking? I had every fucking right to punch you! I should kill you with my bare hands! I should have at least gotten a third punch!” John shouts at him, clenching and unclenching his fists as though he really is considering hitting Sherlock again.

“I apologized,” Sherlock explains to the outraged soldier, and though Sherlock understands why he might be angry, he doesn’t understand why the apology didn’t work. It should’ve worked. It had always worked before.

“You _apologized?_ For what? For showing up randomly after letting me think you were dead? Or for dying in the first place? It’s been three years, Sherlock! Three years! You don’t think that maybe, possibly, I would have moved on?” John exclaims loudly, bitterness filling his voice as he glances around the room.

Sherlock takes the time to look around. Everything is exactly as he left it, but the place looks lifeless. He can see the dust from where his items haven’t been touched, and had he been any other person, he would not have suspected someone lived here. It’s old and without the lived-in feel that he remembers.

“I was protecting you,” He murmurs quietly as his eyes land on his bedroom door which has been shut tightly and appears to be locked.

“You could have warned me! Sent a letter! Had Mycroft tell me, something! Not this, not just showing up out of the blue after three years. It doesn’t work like that, Sherlock,” John explains, and Sherlock can hear the fight leaving his voice, as if he’s resigning. “You can’t just come back and expect things to be normal again.”

When Sherlock looks back at John, he finally notices how tired the blond looks. There are bags under his eyes, more grey hairs, and he’s gotten terribly thin. As he stands, he sways a bit, as if he hasn’t slept in days, and Sherlock suspects that’s probably the case. There’s a slight flush to his skin that isn’t from anger, and his eyes are slightly bloodshot. As if he’d been drinking.

“I can’t do this right now,” John is saying, his voice weary and shattered.

“What do you mean, John?” Sherlock asks. Surely John won’t just leave him? That’s not like John.

“I’m going to Greg’s. I can’t deal with this,” John mumbles and picks up his jacket off the floor, turning to leave.

“Greg?”

“Greg. Lestrade. You know, another person you abandoned. I needed a friend when my other one died.”

Sherlock is startled by the ferocity in John’s voice as he storms from the flat and into the night, and it causes him to drop the icepack. Staring at the door, he begs silently for John to come back, longing to apologize. Sherlock miscalculated. He didn’t understand how much it would hurt everyone. He thought he could come back and John would be happy.

Clearly, that was not the case.

“Oh dear, that did not go the way I thought it would. No, not at all,” a voice tuts from the hallway.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says, still hazily staring at the spot John has just vacated. “Nice to see you.”

Mrs. Hudson enters the room now that the clear signs of danger or objects being thrown or walls being shot are over. She gives Sherlock a sad but warming smile, and that alone is enough to convey how much she missed him. Sherlock does not need to hear her story nor does he need to apologize. She understands. She’s Mrs. Hudson.

“Sorry to intrude, dear, but you boys were being a bit loud,” Mrs. Hudson tells him, coming over to sit next to him. She takes his hand into her lap and pats it, moving the icepack off his knee where it had fallen.

“I was wrong, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Nonsense, dearie. John is just a bit upset. He’s had it rough these three years, trying to move on but not willing to give up hope even though we all had. He had just about convinced himself he was ready to let you go and then here you are! It’s understandable that the poor boy is feeling overwhelmed,” Mrs. Hudson explains gently, her hand settling on Sherlock’s, her old fingers warm and tender against his.

“He hit me,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Yes, well you deserved it. I’d have probably hit you with a plate or the paper, too, if it had been me. If I didn’t faint first, which I might’ve done mind you.”

Sherlock tucks that away in his head. So maybe it wasn’t just John’s reaction. Maybe feeling angry enough to hit Sherlock was a normal reaction to this sort of thing. Sherlock doesn’t know, but he does want to find out, and he knows that to do that he has to get John to forgive him.

“He went to Lestrade. Are they…” But he can’t say it, because namely he doesn’t quite understand what that entails, and also because he’s not sure if he wants to know. It’s new, this sudden twisting in his stomach that makes him feel sick.

“Not that I’m aware of. Lestrade was really the only to care about John, since he knew how close you two were. I tried, but I’m just the old landlady. I actually believe John’s joined Lestrade’s team. Something to keep him busy is what he said, but if you ask me, it was to stay close to you. But what do I know?” Mrs. Hudson laughs, her eyes brightening as she once again pats Sherlock’s hand with her own.

“You know more than you let on, Mrs. Hudson. Where can I find Lestrade?” Sherlock asks as he stands and pulls on his scarf, ignoring the ache from the right side of his face and his nose.

“Lestrade will be at his office right now. I suppose John’s gone to meet him so they can go for drinks after, like they normally do. I don’t really know where they go, as it’s somewhere different each week.”

Sherlock thanks Mrs. Hudson, gives a quick hug (because, really, he did miss her), and dashes out the door hoping to catch John and Lestrade before they leave Scotland Yard.

 

* * *

 

“And you punched him?”

John shrinks a bit further into the chair across from Lestrade’s desk. He’s had a bit of time to think about his actions upon seeing Sherlock standing in front of his door after three years, and he thinks maybe, _maybe_ , he overreacted a bit.

“Yeah,” He mutters, only to hear Lestrade start laughing.

“It’s about bloody time. Someone needed to; perhaps it jarred some screws back into place,” Lestrade says lightly, leaning back in his chair.

 In all fairness, he took the news of Sherlock being alive rather well. He certainly didn’t react as John had, though Lestrade didn’t know Sherlock on the same personal level as John. Lestrade mostly just stared at John for a long time and then apologized for doubting him, and then asked if he wanted to talk about it. He could be helpful, when he wanted. And John wanted to talk, he just didn’t know how. So he started from the beginning, ending with him storming out.

“It’s not a joke. I acted irrationally. I should have at least waited for him to explain first,” John mumbles, staring out the window at the dark street.

“Nah, you were angry. It’s been three years, John. You had every right. Holmes’ll get over it, especially since all he probably wants now is your forgiveness. Knowing Holmes, he’ll be back to acting like nothing ever happened before the week is up. And he’ll want you there when I decide to stop irritating him and give him a case.”

“I don’t think I know if I want anything to do with him, though. You said it yourself; it’s been three years,” John says quietly. He turns his eyes from the window to look at Lestrade, who’s giving him a calculating stare, concerned but understanding. “Who’s to say he’ll come back next time?”

Lestrade doesn’t say anything, only stands and picks up his coat. John follows quietly behind, ignoring the pitiful stares the people of Scotland Yard still give him. They don’t know yet, that Sherlock’s alive and that John was right. And John doesn’t want them to know because he thought it would feel better. He thought he would love knowing he had been right all along.

He hates it.

 

* * *

 

It’s tense and silent and if anybody walked by, they would be able to cut the air with a knife. Sherlock won’t stop staring at John and John won’t look at Sherlock and Lestrade is sweeping his eyes back and forth between both of them, dumbfounded at the interaction.

Lestrade knows Sherlock doesn’t understand how to fix this and he knows John isn’t ready to try. He also knows he needs to clear the scene ASAP so that the two can _really_ talk, because even though he has seen them do their weird communication (which is really just John listening to and repeating what Sherlock says), he knows they have a deeper relationship than Sherlock is comfortable exposing to the real world. Lestrade may not be John, but he’s worked with Sherlock enough to know these things.

So he clears his throat and whistles, his eyes purposefully landing on the bruise on Sherlock’s cheek. He will tell John later that he’s impressed. “He really got you, didn’t he?”

“Shut up, Lestrade.”

Lestrade holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, it was just an observation. I would have gone for the eye. The bruise is going to be there for awhile though. Anderson’s going to have a field day.”

Lestrade can see John bristling, and that’s his goal. If he gets John going, John will stop this foolish silent treatment and actually speak to Sherlock. He’ll take any emotion he can get, even if it results in his own bruise later.

“Anderson is still around, is he? Shame, I was looking forward to not having my IQ drop every time I go to the Yard.”

“You just can’t say a single good thing about anyone, can you?”

And Lestrade leaves, because John is angry and talking to Sherlock now, and they won’t say what they really need to say if he’s standing there. So he leaves, letting the explosive yelling fade with each step. God, as much as he enjoyed the silence, he really missed Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just say you’re sorry and expect everything to be better!”

“Why not? It’s happened before.”

“It doesn’t _work_ like that! Not for something this big! God, are you that dense?”

“Yes.”

John actually stops and looks at Sherlock, bewildered. “What?”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry. I don’t understand why this bothers you so much. I don’t understand why you hit me or why you feel like you should do it again. I don’t understand why you look as if you haven’t been sleeping nor eating properly or taking care of yourself. I don’t understand why I don’t understand that because I do the same thing. But I’m me, John. I’m the screwed up consulting detective who doesn’t have friends. You aren’t. You’re average John, with friends and girlfriends and a past that makes sense. I’m supposed to understand everything. I’m a genius! But you… I don’t understand you.”

John just stares. He doesn’t know what else to do. How does one respond to that? He couldn’t very well apologize. What would he even be apologizing for? But does he say thank you? It’s not much of a compliment either. So should he be angry? It wasn’t really an insult, just a bit of an abnormal statement coming from Sherlock.

So John just stares. “I…”

Sherlock looks frustrated, like he can’t figure out what he’s trying to say and he’s doing his best to get John to understand but John just doesn’t. He paces a few times and stops to look at the sky as if he’s asking for help and all John can do is watch, confused and lost but entranced.

“I don’t get it. I don’t get this, any of it. It’s all new to me. And I’m trying to figure it out but I’m missing something. And I _don’t know what it is!”_ Sherlock cries, bothered. He turns to look at John, as if John is holding all the answers. But really, John has no clue what’s going on.

“Sherlock…” John starts, meaning to tell the taller man to calm down, that it’s fine. It’s not, but if John has to say that to make Sherlock stop staring at him so intensely, he will. Only he never really gets to say the words.

Because Sherlock is there, _right in front of him_ , and he was definitely at least fifteen feet away before, and Sherlock is staring down at John, his eyes determined and confused and so _intense_ that John feels dizzy staring into them.

And then Sherlock takes John’s face into his hands and kisses him, and John forgets why he was mad in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Things at 221B Baker Street that day happen a little like this.

*

Sherlock ignores a text from Lestrade.

*

_Relief_

*

John wakes up to find tea already made.

*

_Reconciliation_

_*_

Mrs. Hudson informs them that she thinks it’s about time.

*

_Happiness_

*

Lestrade barges through the door, shielding his eyes ‘just in case’.

*

_Excitement_

*

Mycroft calls. Sherlock ignores it. He calls John.

*

_Energy_

_*_

Sherlock demands Lestrade leave, and asks Mrs. Hudson to politely escort him.

*

_Novelty_

*

John smiles at Sherlock

*

_Forgiveness_

_*  
_

But really, it all happens so fast, that by the time Lestrade realizes he’s being pushed out the front door by an alarmingly strong Mrs. Hudson, he knows he does _not_ want to go back upstairs. John and Sherlock have a lot of catching up to do.


End file.
